


Practical Experience

by chasingriver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Sherlock, First Kiss, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingriver/pseuds/chasingriver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind the safety of his closed door, he ripped into the box. The plastic blister-pack contained a dark purple toy shaped like a two-tiered Christmas tree. The website had suggested it was for ‘intermediate users’, but he’d never been ‘beginner’ about anything in his life—why should this be any different? Although it was, worryingly, larger than he’d expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Experience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcantsaymylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcantsaymylastname/gifts).



Sherlock checked his shopping list.

 _Carrots?_   Already in the basket.

 _Cucumbers?_   Two of them, lovely and firm.

 _Turnips?_   No. Definitely not. The shape was all wrong. What had he been thinking?

 _Parsnips?_ One or two of them looked like they had potential; a step up from the carrots, perhaps.

 _Gourds?_ To be honest, they intimidated him, but he put one of the smaller ones in the basket anyway. _It’s good to have goals._

An older woman picking over the seedless grapes gave him an odd look. He gave her an arched stare and she hurried away. When a young mother wandered into the fruit and veg section with an over-sugared toddler, he bolted.

This shopping thing was tedious.

_Probably more than enough for this trip, anyway._

The checkout girl took one look at Sherlock’s basket full of phallic vegetables, smirked at him, and said, “Staying in tonight?”

He glared at her and bagged them. Perhaps he should have included something else in there, just to make his shopping trip look legitimate. That settled it; his ‘situation’ called for a more radical solution.

* * *

Sherlock approached sexual stimulation with same level of intellectual curiosity and pragmatism that he applied to the rest of his life. He had no real desire for a relationship—people were far too boring and he really didn’t see the point—but certain physical needs had to be met, and to be frank, wanking wasn’t doing it for him anymore.

Initial attempts with his fingers were promising, but they’d led to arm cramps and a general sense that there had to be an easier way of going about it. The vegetables had been more successful—until the incident where John had caught him with the carrot. Thankfully, he was only preparing it and not using it, but he didn’t eat carrots and it had required more of an explanation than he’d cared to fabricate. When he found online pornography that included the use of sex toys, it all clicked: safe, sanitary, purpose-built, and no need to try and get a different checkout girl every time he went to the shops.

The unmarked cardboard box arrived in the post a few days later. Mrs Hudson hurried out and stopped him as soon as he walked in the front door.

“You got a box, Sherlock. I wonder what it could be? I do hope it’s not something dangerous. Perhaps that nice Detective Inspector can have a look at it and make sure it’s not a bomb or something.”

Sherlock smiled indulgently. As much as he’d love to see the look on Lestrade’s face if he opened the box, it would be a little more than he wanted to share with the man. He’d show Mycroft, perhaps. Anything to get a rise out of his stuffy brother.

“No, it’s fine, Mrs Hudson. I ordered a book online, and I expected it to arrive today.”

“Really?” She shook the box with a doubtful expression. “It doesn’t seem heavy enough to be a book.”

“It’s a very small book. Now, the package, if you please?”

“It’s such a shame.”

His fingers itched in anticipation to try out the new toy, and here he was, stuck in an endless conversation with his landlady.

“I’m sure it is,” he replied, having no idea what was a shame, and not caring.

“The plight of small local bookshops, being replaced by the internet like this.”

“Hm, yes. Terrible business, I agree. Well, I must be off,” he said, snatching the box from her. He took the stairs two at a time, restraining himself from ripping it open until he got inside the flat. He jumped when he opened the door and saw John sitting there with a newspaper.

John nodded in recognition and continued reading.

 _Bloody hell._ “What are you doing here? I thought you were having dinner with Sarah.”

He looked up, scowling. “Problem?”

 _Ah, she cancelled. So much for my evening alone._ “No, no problem. Just wasn’t expecting you to be here.” _Where else could I do this? Hm. It’s five o’clock. Mycroft’s flat. He won’t be home for another couple of hours._ “I needed something at Barts and came back to pick it up.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t text me to get it for you,” John said, a bit sarcastically.

“As I said, I thought you’d be out.” Sherlock headed for his bedroom. Before he’d gone a few feet, John said, “What’s in the box?” _My God, what is it with nosey people today?_   “Book,” he said, and kept going, without further explanation.

Behind the safety of his closed door, he ripped into it. The plastic blister-pack contained a dark purple toy shaped like a two-tiered Christmas tree. The website had suggested it was for ‘intermediate users’, but he’d never been ‘beginner’ about anything in his life—why should this be any different? Although it was, worryingly, larger than he’d expected.

The packaging said ‘Vibrating Anal Massager’ in an overbearing font.

_Well, they didn’t make much of an effort with the graphic design. I hope they did better with their manufacturing processes._

He stashed the toy—and an appropriately-sized chemistry text—in a shopping bag, then threw another book on top of it for good measure. It wouldn’t withstand close inspection, but if John wanted to deduce the bag’s contents, that was his problem. Two books were adequate to shield the sex toy from accidental glances.

 _I wonder if Mycroft has any lube?_   It seemed unlikely. He tucked some underneath the books.

“Coming back for dinner?” John asked, as Sherlock headed for the door.

“Nope. Molly has some fresh organs for me. I need to get started on them.”

“Well, I suppose it’s just me then,” John grumbled.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if the question required an answer—it sounded rhetorical. He didn’t give him one. “Right. See you later.”

* * *

It took him less than a minute to pick the lock on the outer door of Mycroft’s building. _Really; he should be ashamed of himself._ Granted, there were two other electronic locks—the passwords to which he knew from watching Mycroft enter them in the past. He was so lax about security—it was almost as if he wanted him to break in. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had done it; before he’d lived at Baker Street, he’d crash there whenever Mycroft was out of town on business—showing up after drug binges or merely avoiding the squalor of his own little flat. Though he was always long gone before Mycroft came back, he never made any effort to hide his presence and Mycroft never mentioned it after he returned from his travels.

Mycroft never let anyone else get away with anything. _Fraternal privilege._

He swanned into the large living room and deposited his coat on a convenient chair. _Silence._ Of course Mycroft wasn’t home yet—world domination took effort. He eyed the bedroom doors thoughtfully. _Mycroft’s room or the guest room? Or right here on the sofa?_

The sofa. That made his breath hitch. On the off chance that Mycroft _did_ come home unexpectedly, there’d be no way of hiding what he’d been doing or pretending he was there for a nap. _Yes._ Mycroft would be mortified. He found himself almost hoping he’d get caught.

He eyed the pale yellow silk upholstery and considered the ramifications of ruining it. More attention from Mycroft, certainly—but probably not the sort he’d enjoy. Trading playful barbs and deductions was one thing; unleashed fury was another. He wandered back to the toilet and plucked an expensive towel from the neatly folded pile. _Mm, plush. Maybe I’ll take a few with me._ Mycroft always had impeccable taste. It wasn’t as if Sherlock couldn’t buy the same things—he just didn’t _care_ —but it was nice to take advantage of someone else’s efforts.

A shiver of excitement passed through him as he spread the towel on the sofa. It was so tempting to feel the upholstered silk against his bare skin, but the lube always went _everywhere_. He’d made that mistake with his own sofa once. _Good thing it was leather._

He slipped his phone from his pocket and checked the time. _Still a couple hours before he’ll be home._ Putting it on the side table, he started undressing. He fought the overwhelming desire to throw off his clothes and see what the damned thing felt like, but he didn’t often have the luxury of time, and he wanted to memorise every second of this, even if it killed him. Anticipation wasn’t _really_ half the fun, but it was a good tease. He untied his shoes instead of toeing them off as he usually did. He undid all the buttons of his shirt and folded it carefully; his trousers got the same treatment. His pants and socks—well, too much anticipation was just cruel—he shed them in a hurry and dropped them in a graceless heap on top of his other clothes.

He laid on the sofa, propping one of the cushions behind his head as he bent his legs at the knees. _Should I start with the toy or work up to it?_   He looked at it: the top knob was about the width of two fingers. _Doable. And easier to grip than that lubed carrot—God, what a nightmare._ He’d work himself open with the head of the rubber contraption instead—with any luck, he could replace his fingers’ role in this completely. _Ah, the Industrial Revolution._

His cock had started to swell even before he’d taken his clothes off, and he wrapped his fingers around it, giving it a slow, luxurious tug. All thoughts of the toy vanished for a second—the idea of getting himself off in Mycroft’s living room had a certain appeal he hadn’t counted on, but he forced himself to focus. He coated the toy with lube and was soon thankful for the sturdy grip the base provided. Pulling one leg towards his chest, he tried to tease his entrance with the toy, but its length and flexibility worked against him—he didn’t have the usual feedback from his fingers, and the tip of it slid awkwardly across his hole and down into the towel.

_Damn._

Not quite the unqualified success he’d expected.

_Take two._

He worked the tip of it inside, gasping as the smooth rubber nudged him open, then he gave his cock another stroke and pushed it in a little more. _Yes._ This was more like he’d expected: the sensation of being filled by something _not himself_. Unlike the vegetables, it was warm; softer; it could almost be another person if he didn’t think about it too much _._ _Probably how sex feels._ A disconnect in the normal feedback loop of masturbation. Sensations he couldn’t quite control.

He pushed a little further, and the top knob of the toy breached him. He let out a gasp of surprise and pleasure as his sphincter closed tightly around it. It sent a pulse of heat through his body, and then his attention focused on the fact that it was holding him _open_ , without any sort of intervention on his part. _Odd sensation._ He paused for a second, shifting on the towel to get a better angle, then he started on the second—much larger—part of the toy.

It didn’t go nearly as well as the first, and it didn’t take him long to discover the problem: leverage, or lack of it. The increased girth called for more force (and more time), and quite honestly, his forearm wasn’t up to the task. The sofa, however, didn’t suffer from muscle fatigue. He took out the toy and placed it on the towel. Then, with his arse poised just above it—his awkward position involving elbows and braced feet looking like some sort of sex toy yoga pose—he lowered himself on top of it, using one hand to guide the tip of it inside him.

The first knob slipped in easily this time, but his progress was quickly stopped by the larger part of the toy. He grinned; the weight of his body kept it pinned inside him without any help from his hands. He relaxed a little, and the toy pressed against him insistently. It felt huge. Impossibly huge. _Wonderful._ He’d read enough to know he shouldn’t force the process, that he had to take the time to let his arse relax enough to accept it.

The feeling of constant pressure against his hole—knowing it would keep opening him up relentlessly unless he deliberately raised his body off of it—felt like submission. It felt good.

It felt almost as good as the toy.

He frowned, confused.

_Unexpected reaction._

Before he could consider the implications of a submissive streak, his brain conjured up an image of him on his knees with his arse in the air, as someone else worked the toy inside him.

_Wait. What?_

That had escalated quickly.

_People aren’t part of the equation._

_(They can be.)_

He’d never wanted them to be, before now. _Who is it?_

No answer from his brain, as his eyes fluttered closed and he sank inexorably down onto the toy. The pressure; the stretch. It was nearly a _burn_ , but it felt so good.

His mind drifted and took him further into his fantasy.

 _Who?_   With his face cradled in his arms like this, he couldn’t see him. He tried to turn and look, but it didn’t work. _Victor?_ They’d ‘gone out’ in uni, and if his brain would conjure anyone at the end of that toy, surely it would be him, but it wasn’t—the power dynamic was all wrong. Victor had deferred to him at every turn; he wouldn’t take charge like this.

His thoughts were interrupted as the stretch got to be _too much_. He lifted his hips, backing off slightly, breathing heavily. He struggled to hold on to his fantasy as it threatened to evaporate.

He ran through the suspects in his head like a police line-up.

_John? No. Really not my type._

_(I didn’t think you had a type.)_

_Shut up._ The last thing he needed was his brain making sarcastic comebacks.

 _Lestrade?_ He frowned. Attractive; possibly dominant. _(Probably straight.) It doesn’t matter; it’s a fantasy. (Just trying to help.) Not helping._

_Sebastian? Ugh, no. (Agreed.) Shut up._

_Dimmock? No._

_Anderson? God, no._

He struggled to think of any other candidates, but there weren’t any. Lestrade, then?

It was hard to tell. Somehow, his mystery partner seemed quieter than he would have expected Lestrade to be.

An image of his brother flashed across his mind, looking stern and vaguely predatory. The answering throb in his gut told him all he needed to know.

_Mycroft, then. Fascinating. (It took you long enough to figure it out.)_

Now that he knew, he found he could turn around and see him, still dressed in one of his suits, one smooth hand resting on his lower back, the other working the toy inside him relentlessly. “Are you enjoying this, Sherlock?” Mycroft murmured, a smile on his lips.

“Yes,” he replied out loud. It shattered the quiet of the flat and the daydream collapsed around him.

_It’s not like it matters. It’s just a fantasy._

The toy was very, very real.

And very, very large.

_It didn’t seem this large before._

Damned if he was going to let that stop him. Besides, it felt fantastic—it was just taking longer than he’d expected. The realisation about Mycroft could wait until later.

Balancing carefully, he got some more lube. He rubbed it along the outside of his stretched hole, fascinated by the spot where his skin met the toy. He eased down further and smiled as the smooth toy pushed him even wider; felt the slick rubber drag across his finger as it entered his body. _It feels like I’m almost there. God, I hope so._ He didn’t think he could take any more of the stretch. He ran his hand down the toy to find the widest point; he had about a centimetre left to go.

Two minutes later, that centimetre was still there, and it might as well have been five for all the progress he’d made. Frustrated, he tried to force himself onto it, but that only made his arse less inclined to cooperate.

He let out a deep breath. If he was going to manage this, he needed to relax. Once again, he tried to sink down onto it using only his body weight, but it wasn’t working. His body was as relaxed as it was going to get, and it wasn’t going to be enough.

_Damn it all to hell._

So what if it had said ‘Intermediate’? There had to be a way somehow—he wasn’t leaving without ‘finishing the job’—preferably before Mycroft got home.

In a flash of inspiration, he remembered the ‘vibrator’ aspect of the toy. He reached underneath the base to feel for the tiny button, then turned it on.

He couldn’t have told you what happened next, because his vision flashed white with unexpected sensation; nerve endings kicking into overdrive and flooding his brain with _‘fuckyesthat’._ He arched his back in pleasure, pressing his arse down further against the toy, and suddenly a centimetre was nothing: the toy slid inside him, drawing only a quick, breathless cry as the widest part of it breached him.

He collapsed back onto the sofa like someone had stolen his bones. His arse grasped the toy firmly now, swallowing it up and greedily taking the delicious stimulation it offered. Tipping his head back against the cushion, he let out a sound that could have been mistaken for pain if it hadn’t been for the look of bliss plastered across his face. His fists clenched the towel as he squirmed, trying to find just the right spot.

When he tilted his hips, he found it.

“Fuck!”

The sound of his voice eclipsed the silence of the flat and the quiet buzz of the vibrator, but he had no concept of that; he was only aware of the unyielding throb of pleasure deep inside his gut. The need for concentration over, he abandoned himself to sensation; he wrapped his hand around his cock and started to stroke himself—deliberate, long pulls at first, but as the pleasurable assault on his prostate continued, his hand moved more desperately, chasing the orgasm he could feel building at the base of his spine. It only took a few minutes before he came hard, splattering the taut muscles of his abdomen with his release as he let out a throaty moan. The orgasm was wonderfully brutal, wringing every last, shuddering gasp from his overstimulated body.

Utterly spent, he reached down to turn off the vibrator, but its phantom ‘thrum’ permeated his body as he lay exhausted on the sofa. Even his toes tingled, but he was pretty sure that was from the orgasm.

He ran a quick mental check. This had been, by far, the best orgasm he’d ever had.

 _Intensity; quality; duration. All far beyond normal._ He squinted. _Exhaustion correspondingly higher. To be expected, really._

The sensation in his arse now that orgasm had passed: _stuffed full_. It wasn’t distasteful, but there was no need to leave the toy in there now that he’d come.

He shifted to get into a better position and it pushed against his prostate anew, this time sending signals of _too much_ to his brain. He ignored them and insinuated his fingers around the base of the toy. He pulled at it slowly, and they slipped off. _Too much lube._ A good thing before; not such a good thing now—at least not if he wanted to keep a grip on it.

He fumbled with the towel. Dry fingers. Dry toy. _Tug._

Nothing.

He frowned. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The toy had gone in; he’d had his orgasm; now the toy was supposed to come out. _Why on earth isn’t it coming out?_

He tugged again, to no effect.

_Fuck._

He’d heard about cases like this: people who turned up at the hospital with something lodged up their arse. All things considered, at least this was the sort of object intended to be there, but that didn’t make matters much better.

He took a few deep breaths. _Calm down._ Tried again with the toy. It was no use—no matter how much he attempted to relax, his arse clenched around the wide base of the toy; it wasn’t coming out.

He slammed his fist against the sofa in frustration, fighting a rising sense of panic. He needed to pace. To think. He swung his legs over the edge and sat up, immediately regretting the decision as the action shifted the toy once again. The base of the toy was small enough that it nestled between his arse cheeks; it didn’t prevent him from sitting—it was just extremely memorable when he did. Standing up, he wiped himself off with the towel and threw it on the floor in a huff.

Pacing turned out to be a bad idea, as did any sort of sudden movement. In fact, any walking at all seemed to be off the books if he wanted to concentrate on something other than the sensations in his arse. Besides, wandering around in the nude felt odd, and he didn’t feel like getting a fresh towel to sit on. He gingerly pulled his pants back on, glad for the stretch-knit of the cotton that accommodated the slightly protruding base. Putting his shirt on was much easier. He considered putting on his trousers, but the tight-fitting seam between his legs would press against the base of the toy, and that sounded like torture at the moment. _So, shirt and pants it is._ Perching in one of Mycroft’s chairs, he took up his ‘thinking pose’.

He did a couple of internet searches on his phone, hoping some helpful soul might have posted hints about toy removal, but only found porn for his efforts. He checked the time: Mycroft would be home in a while, and he couldn’t stay here too long figuring it out. But what could he do? He could barely walk straight with the thing in place, and that was certain to cause a few questions when he got home. He could wait and see if the problem resolved itself.

_Perhaps it’s a function of post-orgasmic muscle behaviour._

It seemed unlikely, but he didn’t have a lot of experience in that area. It didn’t matter _what_ the cause was if Mycroft came home and found him in this state, although he’d much rather explain to Mycroft than to John…

They’d never talked about sex, but Mycroft was always insinuating he knew something about it. _What if he does?_

Sherlock (carefully) walked down the hallway to Mycroft’s bedroom and started going through his bedside table. He hadn’t expected to find anything more than a bottle of lube—he certainly didn’t expect to see a dildo and two anal plugs sitting next to it. Not small ones, either.

_Well. I suppose he wasn’t bluffing._

He frowned, trying to process this new information about his brother. It stood to reason that Mycroft had some sort of a sex life—some level of experience. And as embarrassing as it would be to admit his mistake to Mycroft, the prospect of explaining his situation to a triage nurse at the hospital—or, worse still, John—was even less desirable.

Mycroft would be discreet enough to keep it to himself. And, unless these sex toys were all for show, he knew what he was doing.

Heaving a resigned sigh, he dialled Mycroft’s number.

He picked up on the second ring. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Sherlock said, mentally cursing how panicked he sounded.

“Yes, I know it’s you. What’s wrong? You usually text.”

“Yes, well, I have a… problem.”

“Do tell.”

“You have to promise you won’t laugh.”

“I promise to try,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock huffed. “Fine.” He was still summoning the courage to say something when Mycroft prompted him.

“You said there was a problem of some sort?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said with irritation. There was no easy way to put this. “I bought a toy. A sex toy.”

“Congratulations, but that doesn’t sound very problematic.”

“I—”

“Yes?”

“I got it stuck.”

There were a few seconds of awkward silence. “Ah.”

“I was hoping you could help.”

There was a short pause before Mycroft answered. “I’m not quite sure how to interpret that, Sherlock.”

“Tell me how to get it out!”

“Well, er, you need to ensure you’re as relaxed as possible.” His normally calm voice had taken on a decidedly flustered edge. “Then, if you bear down on it a little, you should be able to pull it out without much fuss.”

“But I _tried_ that,” he said with a desperate whine.

Mycroft sighed. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I don’t know what else to suggest. If you need to go to A&E, I’ll come and get you, and we can go together. Where are you?”

Sherlock paused. “Um, at your flat.”

“You could just ask for a key, you know.”

He shrugged, even though Mycroft couldn’t see him. “Breaking in is more interesting.”

“I can be home in twenty minutes; will you be all right until then?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, indignantly. Then, remembering Mycroft was doing him a favour, added “Thanks.”

* * *

Mycroft ended the call and gathered up his coat and briefcase.

“I have to leave early, Anthea. Email me if anything comes up, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Yes, sir. Have a nice evening.”

“Thank you,” he said, and left. If Anthea noticed his perturbed expression, she didn’t say anything.

He would have liked more than twenty minutes to mentally process the situation. He suspected the phrases ‘my brother’ and ‘sex toy’ weren’t ones the general public put in the same sentence. It was even less likely they’d ever have to cope with the situation personally. Technically, he wasn’t obligated to help, but Mycroft couldn’t bear the thought of Sherlock dealing with this alone, or with unleashing the unstoppable force of his brother on an unsuspecting hospital staff.

His awkward response didn’t only stem from the bizarre circumstances of the call—he’d been carefully hiding his feelings about Sherlock for years; keeping his guard up. Most people considered him to be the poster boy for emotional detachment; they couldn’t have been more wrong, especially when it came to Sherlock.

The feelings he’d previously written off as ‘fond affection’ struck a more jealous note when Sherlock moved in with John. He wanted Sherlock to himself. His emotions were more than just ‘brotherly’, and he locked them away; stored them in a box where no one else could find them. He only brought it out when he was alone—sometimes simply wishing he had Sherlock’s company back, the way things had been before John—but other times imagining what it would be like to have him as a lover. How would Sherlock respond? Would he be analytical and detached, or would he give himself over to sensation and writhe beneath him while he took him apart?

It was a box he tried to avoid opening, and now was certainly not the time to be digging it out of the wardrobe.

With any luck, Sherlock would resolve the situation before he got home, and he wouldn’t have to think about the pretty lines of Sherlock’s arse and the toy currently lodged within it.

_I’d rather my fingers were in there, opening him up._

The thought assailed him from nowhere, and he nearly tripped on the pavement; he felt the blush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he hurried through the crowds to his waiting car. He needed something else to occupy his mind.

_The Greek financial report; grain prices in the States; the way the buttons on Sherlock’s shirts barely keep them closed._

_No._

He placed the box in the far recesses of his mental wardrobe. Sherlock needed him and he had to help—and he’d be in no state to do so if he kept on like this.

His driver pulled into the crush of evening traffic, and he spent the next fifteen minutes wondering what they could do to avoid a trip to the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock had expected more of a reaction, but Mycroft had taken the news remarkably well. The fact that he hadn’t sent an ambulance over, siren blaring, reassured Sherlock that he wasn’t in any immediate danger.

_Mycroft can sort anything out._

Calmer now, he decided investigate the toy drawer further. He picked up the large dildo and peered at it.

_Silicone rubber; same as the plug. Hard to believe it fits, but he’s always been an overachiever._

He thought about his brother using it and found himself aroused by the idea; not just aroused, but actively picturing how it would look—his uptight brother undone, sliding a thick rubber cock into his own arse. Or sliding it into Sherlock’s.

 _Fascinating. Shouldn’t I be repulsed? Isn’t_ _there some sort of ‘rule’ about that?_

He searched his brain and came up with ‘The Westermarck Effect’—the theory that being raised as siblings prevents sexual attraction between them. If his earlier fantasy was any indication, the theory was either completely wrong or it didn’t apply to them. The idea of having Mycroft as a lover made perfect sense—he was the only person who didn’t question Sherlock’s sanity. Then again, it was possible they were both barking mad.

He mentally shrugged. He’d never been concerned with other people’s rules; he didn’t see why they should stop him from thinking about why Mycroft owned sex toys or what he did with them.

_Does he use the toys alone? On someone else? If he’s with someone, why don’t I know about it?_

He looked at the dildo. It was larger than his own cock, although not by much. It was bigger than the toy inside him had been at its widest point.

_Christ. What would it feel like, to be held open that wide? Much more like getting properly fucked, surely._

Now he wished the toy inside him was gone for entirely different reasons.

Glancing around, as if worried he’d get caught, he picked it up. He’d been meaning to try out oral sex for some time now, but lacking a partner had proved problematic. He couldn’t very well suck his own cock, although, to be honest, he had tried it on one very boring afternoon when John had been working, but ended up deciding it wasn’t worth the repeated effort and the sore neck.

He wet his lips and gingerly placed them on the bulbous head of the toy. It smelled faintly of soap. He pushed it a little further into his mouth, feeling the weight of the rubber on his tongue, cataloguing the sensations and noting the point where it became uncomfortable. He marked the spot with his fingers and took it out of his mouth.

_Barely half of it. I can do better than that._

He pushed it in again, this time forcing it deeper until it cut off his breath.

_Better, but still not all of it. Maybe if I tilt my head back to open my throat…_

* * *

Mycroft had been prepared to find many things when he got back to his flat.

Sherlock deep-throating his dildo was not one of them.

His brother was so preoccupied by his efforts that he hadn’t noticed Mycroft come in—which was a good thing, since Mycroft was currently grasping for something coherent to say. Anything would do. He wasn’t picky.

He eventually gave a little cough and said, “Well, I see you kept yourself busy while you were waiting.”

Sherlock, his eyes wide, pulled the toy from his mouth and hid it behind his back, but it was hard to look innocent while holding a rubber prick. Especially when he’d been caught in the act. “Fuck! Um. That was quick.”

Mycroft smiled, not unkindly, curious to see what Sherlock would say next.

“Data,” he said. “On oral sex. I didn’t have any. Saw this and thought I’d have a go.”

Mycroft stood there and let him continue, partially because seeing Sherlock trying to talk his way out of this was incredibly entertaining, and partially because his suddenly-interested cock was volunteering to give Sherlock all the data he needed. Which was utterly out of the question.

“Not quite the same as the real thing, I’m sure, but far better than when I tried sucking myself off—”

Mycroft’s brain quietly exploded, and he wished he’d been there to see Sherlock’s attempt.

“—I should just buy my own. Don’t know why I didn’t order one of these at the same time.”

When he finally finished talking, he took his hand from behind his back and held the dildo out like a peace offering. “Er, sorry about your toy.” The sheepish grin looked out of place.

“No, it’s quite all right. Did you learn anything new?”

“Yes—that I need more data. It looks much easier on the internet.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, trying to stifle a grin. It didn’t work.

“What? It’s not funny. What do you use these for, anyway?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

“That’s not what I meant. Did you find someone while I was gone?”

Mycroft sighed. “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m _lonely_. Neither does owning sex toys.”

“I didn’t say you were lonely, but it does make the situation easier.”

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft said, frowning. He didn’t have a clue what Sherlock was on about.

“No jealous partners or awkward explanations. You can help me get the data I need, and we both get something out of it. I might have missed the point of sex until now.”

When he’d recovered from the shock, he said, “ _No,_ Sherlock.” His demeanour showed no signs of instability, but inside, he was a trembling mess.

“It took you four seconds to respond. You were thinking about it.”

“I think that’s an acceptable pause when one’s brother has casually proposed incest. I’m sure it’s in one of the etiquette books somewhere.”

“No, I think they’d dictate ‘immediate shock and horror’, not four seconds of trying to get your head together; you’re never that slow. Besides, rules don’t bother you.”

“Not an option,” he said, as firmly as he knew how. He took the dildo from Sherlock’s hand and placed it back in the drawer. He’d worry about cleaning it later.

“Then tell me why not. It’s just ‘friends with benefits’.”

“There’s a reason you don’t hear the phrase ‘brothers with benefits’ bandied about. For one, it would make Christmas dinners even _more_ awkward.” He loosened his tie, just a little; he needed air. Removing a sex toy from his brother’s arse now seemed delightfully straightforward in comparison.

“Don’t be so boring.”

 _If only you knew._ “Look,” Mycroft said, “can we put the metaphysical discussion on hold until we’ve dealt with the problem at hand?”

“I’ve already figured that out. I think if I have another orgasm, my muscles will relax enough to remove it, like you said.”

“Splendid. I’ll be in the other room having a stiff drink. Let me know when you’re done and perhaps we can go out for dinner.” He turned and headed out of the bedroom, hoping the discussion was over.

“Well…”

He stopped. “What do you mean, ‘Well…’?”

“Well, that’s the problem. I bought the toy because it was taking too long to get myself off with my hand. I’ve already come once—it’ll take forever this time. But if you helped me…”

* * *

Mycroft was being unnecessarily difficult.

Sherlock had figured it out long before Mycroft tipped his hand with that fateful, four-second pause. Mycroft’s bespoke suits had a flaw—their trim lines couldn’t conceal an erection, not even the beginnings of one. And somewhere, in between when Mycroft had entered the room and the time he cleared his throat, Mycroft had started to get hard.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what caused it.

Including Mycroft hadn’t been in the plans, of course. _People_ hadn’t been in the plans. All he’d wanted was a nice quiet place to have an orgasm. If Sarah hadn’t cancelled on John, he would have been in his own bed the whole time, probably working on his second one by now. But this could work out so _nicely_ between them. Mycroft was attracted to him; Sherlock was intrigued by the idea. It was win-win all around.

Except that Mycroft now stood with his back to him in the doorway, emanating _guilt_ so strongly he could almost see it.

The last thing he’d wanted to do was make him feel bad.

Crossing the room in a few quick strides, he wrapped his arms around him and leaned his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft tensed.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right.”

“Come on, let’s have a drink.” He didn’t usually bother with alcohol, but it would help Mycroft relax.

“I’m _fine_ , Sherlock. You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves. We should work on removing the toy before we do anything else.”

“It’s not bothering me as much, now that I know I won’t have to go to the hospital.” To be honest, it was starting to get him aroused again, although he doubted Mycroft would want to hear that.

“All right,” Mycroft said with a sigh and extracted himself from Sherlock’s embrace.

Sherlock hurried down the hallway ahead of him to remove the towel and the lube from the living room floor. He still had them in hand, unsure of what to do with them, as Mycroft walked in.

Mycroft gave him a small grin. “It’s all right. Just put them anywhere.”

They sat in silence with their drinks for a few minutes before Mycroft spoke. “You understand why I can’t do this, don’t you?”

“You feel guilty about your attraction and how it would affect our relationship. I suspect you’re not concerned about the incest taboo.”

“Full marks. I’m afraid you caught me off guard; I’ve been careful to hide it for years, but seeing you with that toy… well, it was unexpected and my body betrayed me. It’s a relief to have you know, in some ways—I always thought you’d hate me if you found out.”

“Of course not. Now that you know I don’t mind, do you still feel guilty about it?”

Mycroft frowned. “You can’t just banish guilt, Sherlock; I’ve lived with this for a long time. I suspect I’ll get over it.”

“Why didn’t you ever get involved with anyone?”

“Pre-existing emotional entanglement.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, as the full extent of Mycroft’s feelings hit him. “‘Caring is not an advantage.’ I never knew you meant it quite like that. I’m sorry; I thought you were being heartless but it seems I got it backwards.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Well, I do now. Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t start having sex, though. I want it; you want it…”

“Because I’m not as pragmatic as you are, and one day you’ll break my heart.”

“It sounds like I already did.”

Mycroft tipped his head and shrugged in acknowledgement. “Perhaps.”

“You could try it my way for a while. Teach me a few things.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Mycroft said, but he started to smile.

“I’m sure you’re good at it; you’re good at everything. Normally it drives me nuts, but in this case it would be an advantage.”

“Now you’re just trying to manipulate me.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure,” Mycroft said with a thoughtful look that Sherlock couldn’t read.

“I’m not just being opportunistic. Earlier today I was fantasising about you while I worked the plug into myself.”

Mycroft coughed, nearly choking on his drink. “You what?”

“I wondered how it would feel if you were there, forcing it into me. I’d never given much thought to what it’s like to give up control, or to include anyone else in sex.”

“And?” Mycroft said, his eyes wide.

“And we were both enjoying it, at least in my fantasy. Now I wonder what it’ll be like when you pin me down and fuck me,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. He was getting hard again just thinking about it, and the thin material of his pants left nothing to the imagination.

“Now you’re being presumptuous,” Mycroft said, with a wry grin.

 _Damn. Overplayed it._ “Just optimistic. What would you suggest we do?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said, but his tone suggested it would be a hell of a way to go.

“I’ll try my best to make it a good one.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and ran his eyes appraisingly down Sherlock’s body. The room felt too warm under his penetrating stare. “We should address the issue with the toy.” His eyes lingered on Sherlock’s obvious erection. “Since you’ve been unable to accomplish the task on your own,” Mycroft continued in a silky voice, “I’ll have to help you.”

 _Oh, God._ This was the Mycroft from his fantasy, so calm and dominant.

“Get undressed.”

His gut throbbed at the order. He sneaked a quick glance at Mycroft’s trousers; he was hard. He wondered what Mycroft would let him do. Or do to him. The thought made it hard to concentrate on undoing his shirt.

“You seem distracted, hm?” Mycroft said. Taking Sherlock’s hand, he pulled him closer to the chair, shifting his own knees apart so Sherlock could stand between them. He started with the lowest shirt button, his hands skimming lightly across the fabric of his pants.

Sherlock tilted his hips towards the pressure, but Mycroft ignored him, continuing to the next button. Each time, he lingered more than was necessary, eventually giving up the pretence altogether and rubbing his palms against the flat planes of Sherlock’s stomach.

His muscles contracted in an almost-ticklish response, and the touch ignited a shiver of sensation throughout his body. He reached for the waistband of his pants, but Mycroft stopped him.

“Not yet. If we’re doing this, it’ll be on my terms, and I want to take my time. Then, if you decide you don’t want to do it again, at least I won’t have rushed it. I’m going to savour every last second.” His words were modulated and calm, but his hands told a different story—drinking him in with their touch, unable to get enough of his skin. He slid Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall into a heap on the ground. When Mycroft ran a finger across his nipple, he flinched, startled by the unexpected pleasure.

Mycroft looked up at him questioningly, licked one of his fingers, and did it again—this time blowing on it. Sherlock gasped as the cool air contracted the skin around it, turning into a firm nub.

Mycroft chuckled. “You’ve never bothered to find out what your body can really do, have you? It’s all just a means to an end.”

He shook his head.

“The direct path is rarely the most interesting, you know.” He finally reached for Sherlock’s pants, this time firmly palming the erection that lay beneath.

Sherlock moaned as his eyes fluttered closed. Some small part of his mind told him he should be watching, but sensation won out.

Mycroft chuckled. He freed Sherlock’s erection and pulled them down, where they joined his shirt on the floor.

For the first time in a while, Mycroft’s hands weren’t on him. He looked down, concerned. _Did he change his mind?_

Mycroft smiled up at him and, keeping eye contact, grasped his cock and licked the rosy head of it. Sherlock felt like his knees were going to give out.

“Better than your hand?” he said, his voice low and full of sex. Sherlock could only nod. When Mycroft wrapped his mouth around his cock and circled the corona with his tongue, he had to grab on to the chair for support.

Mycroft sat back in the chair and Sherlock re-established his footing, flushed and breathing hard.

“I believe we have a goal,” Mycroft said, undoing his cuff-links. “Would you prefer to be here or in the bedroom?”

He looked around, feeling slightly dazed. “Um, bedroom?”

Mycroft left his jacket folded on the back of the chair, and started to roll up his sleeves.

Sherlock frowned a little—he couldn’t figure out why, but the act struck him as overtly sexual. _Forearms, though? Why would that be sexual?_ “Aren’t you getting undressed?”

Mycroft smiled at his confusion and said brightly, “I only need my hands and my tongue to take you apart.”

Sherlock made an undignified, desperate sort of sound and hurried down the hallway. In the bedroom, he pulled back the duvet and said, “Where should I—?”

“Hands and knees, please.”

* * *

Mycroft desperately wanted to touch; taste; drink him in. Wanted to kiss him and tell him how much he’d loved him all these years. For Sherlock, this was about sex; for Mycroft, it was love. In an ideal world, they’d both be on the same page, but nothing was ideal. Sherlock loved him in his own way—he knew that—but he’d never known him to feel romantic attraction. If Sherlock had, he’d never said anything to him about it. Regardless, he wasn’t about to turn down Sherlock’s advances or question his newfound enthusiasm for sexual encounters. For all he knew, this would be a one-time thing, and they’d be back to normal tomorrow. You could never tell with Sherlock.

As Sherlock clambered into position, Mycroft knelt behind him and ran his hands along his lower back. Sherlock relaxed into it, and it soothed Mycroft as well. A much-needed moment of calm before the storm.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, placing gentle kisses along his back. “I never thought I’d see you like this.” He ran a hand across Sherlock’s toned muscles. “I didn’t dare imagine you naked, not if I wanted to keep my sanity. Now, though, I won’t be able to see anything else.”

“I didn’t know you fantasised about me,” Sherlock said, sounding surprised.

“If you’d not got the toy stuck, you still wouldn’t know.” He wanted to avoid the topic, at least for the time being—he didn’t want Sherlock’s libido to go off on a philosophical tangent. He smoothed a palm over the curve of Sherlock’s arse, where the toy nestled between his cheeks. He gave it a nudge, and Sherlock’s attention snapped back to the task at hand.

“Oh, do that again,” he said. Bracing himself on one arm, Sherlock started stroking his cock. “Please?”

Mycroft humoured him with a few more gentle nudges, but he had other plans. Better ones.

He climbed off the bed, standing at the foot of it. “Move back here so your knees are on the edge of the bed.”

Sherlock did as he was told. Mycroft smiled to himself, still amazed he was getting to do this. Using both hands, he parted his brother’s arse cheeks, fully exposing the base of the toy; there was still a fair amount of lube around the edge of it and Mycroft pulled his fingers through it, slicking them up. Sherlock let out a breathy little moan at the contact.

“You’re not just going to pull it out, are you?” he asked, sounding a little nervous.

“Of course not.”

“What, then?”

“Wait and see,” he said with a smile. “I think you’ll enjoy it.” Pushing the toy to the side, he saw Sherlock’s hole stretched tightly around it. _God, what a sight._ The pale skin of his arse contrasted nicely with the pink of his entrance, stretched wide by the thick stem of the plug. He chuckled. “Leave it to you to start with something big; didn’t they have anything more reasonable?”

“All the others were labelled ‘beginner’—”

“—and God forbid you should be one of those,” Mycroft interjected.

“Besides, it’s not the first time I’ve had something up there; the checkout girl at the Waitrose can attest to my diverse buying habits.”

It took a second for his meaning to fall into place, then Mycroft said, “Oh dear Lord. Vegetables? Dare I ask what made you switch?”

“John started asking questions, and I had to make up something about a case involving a chef. It was vague and insubstantial—not my finest hour—but it seemed to satisfy him.”

Mycroft smirked as he pictured the conversation. “If nothing else, I can help you find some different toys. There are a lot of good ones out there if you know where to look. Now, enough about vegetables,” he said, and he ran one finger firmly around the exposed area of his rim, stimulating the nerve-rich skin and earning a moan of approval from Sherlock. Each time he moved across the slightly-puckered skin, he pressed just a little harder, ever so slowly stretching him wider.

Sherlock squirmed beneath him and balanced on one arm so he could stroke his cock, but Mycroft stopped him.

“Not yet. It’ll be over too quickly and I there’s something I want to show you.” Sherlock made a reluctant noise but did as Mycroft asked. He spread his cheeks wide again, wishing he had another hand to keep the base of the toy out of the way, but managed to push it to the side as he slid his tongue across the sensitive skin of his hole.

Sherlock jolted. “Is that your—?”

In reply, Mycroft licked one of his arse cheeks and gave a small chuckle.

“Oh, my God,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding amazed.

Mycroft didn’t reply, continuing to tongue his hole as best as he could while he used his fingers to massage Sherlock’s entrance at other side of the plug’s stem.

“More,” he said, sounding wrecked.

He took one of the fingers he’d been using to rub him and slowly pushed it inside, next to the plug—barely the tip of his finger.

Sherlock made a desperate noise Mycroft wasn’t sure how to interpret, and he started to pull it back, thinking he’d gone too far.

“No, don’t. S’good.”

He kept up his efforts with his tongue as he slowly worked the finger inside, feeling it push against the smooth rubber of the toy. Sherlock’s ability to take this much penetration surprised him—perhaps his efforts with the vegetables had been more thorough than Mycroft had suspected. All the better for both of them—if Sherlock decided to take this further in the future, he’d love to bury his cock in this tight, wet heat.

The ring of muscle around his finger got looser, and Sherlock’s moans grew more incoherent. He didn’t know how much longer his brother would last like this. Leaving one finger still buried in Sherlock’s arse with the toy, he reached around and grabbed Sherlock’s erection with his other hand.

Sherlock bucked his hips, startled by the sudden attention his cock was getting, but seeking more.

With this much stimulation, it wouldn’t take much to put him over the edge. He kept stroking him, and—as he did—he turned on the vibrator.

Sherlock’s world exploded.

Mycroft felt his brother spasm around his finger as he came, and although he wouldn’t have his own orgasm, he got just as much satisfaction from being a part of Sherlock’s.

As he finished his shuddering release, Mycroft turned off the vibrator and carefully removed his finger from his now-relaxed arse. Sherlock collapsed onto his back in a boneless heap on the bed, a rosy glow to his cheeks and hair damp with sweat. “That was amazing, thank you,” he said, the normally crisp edge of his words softened by the afterglow.

“It certainly was,” Mycroft replied, in awe at the sight of his brother, completely undone. He flopped down next to him—absurdly, still fully dressed.

“Even better than this afternoon,” Sherlock added.

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He looked over, wanting to kiss him, but it seemed far more intimate than what they’d just done; emotional, not sexual.

“What about you? Should we do something about that?” Sherlock said, glancing at the erection still visible beneath Mycroft’s trousers. It sounded more like an etiquette query than an actual offer.

He smiled. “Arousal isn’t a terminal condition, Sherlock. Besides, you look exhausted.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” he replied, sleepily.

“We should, however, do something about the toy while you’re relaxed.”

“Oh, right.” He leaned on his side, and Mycroft grasped the plug, twisting it slowly as he worked it out of him. Sherlock let out a small moan as the widest part breached him, sighing as the rest of it came free without effort. Mycroft watched his hole gape for a few seconds before it fluttered closed, and he desperately wanted to bury his tongue in there—show him what a proper rimming could be like. He resisted, filing it away with the long list of things he’d like to do if Sherlock let him.

They both lay there in silence for a while—Mycroft unsure of what to say or do next, Sherlock relaxed and content.

He turned to Mycroft with an odd expression. “Do you want to do that again sometime?”

 _You have to ask?_   Then again, it was Sherlock. Of course he had to ask. “Can we skip the part with the panicked phone call?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile, then he closed the small gap between them and awkwardly kissed Mycroft.

The gesture made Mycroft’s heart race and fulfilled him far more than any sexual act could have.

Sherlock pulled away, saying, “Well, now I see why people do that,” and then kissed him again.

Mycroft smiled to himself and wondered how many other things Sherlock would discover that fell into the same category.

“I can’t guarantee I’ll want to keep doing this—”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“—but I think I enjoy having a person in the equation, and I’d like it to be you.”

Coming from anyone else, it wouldn’t sound particularly romantic, but this was Sherlock; it was the most romantic thing Mycroft had ever heard. He kissed him tenderly. For the first time in his life, he could express his feelings without fearing his brother’s reaction.

It wouldn’t be a normal relationship, but it wasn’t as if either of them had stakes on normality. If anyone could make this work, they could.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't use vegetables as sex toys. Also, real sex toys rarely get stuck like this.  
> If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm at [chasingriversong](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com).


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